


The Best Thing One Can Do When It's Raining

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Bed Sex, Community: kink_bingo, Established RM2, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Military Uniforms, Militia Era, Multi, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Philadelphia Era, Present Tense, Rain Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Bass drag Rachel with them on a wild goose chase after acquiring some new leads on Ben. Camped somewhere in Ohio during a summer rainstorm, they indulge in a little R&R.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Thing One Can Do When It's Raining

**Author's Note:**

> Kink Bingo: Uniforms / Military  
> (The main part of the kink is towards the end, involving the Monroe Militia uniform, but there are hints of it sprinkled throughout the fic for those in the fandom including Bass' campaign tent and it's ridiculous furnishings, various pieces of the officers' uniforms including green wool and M buttons, and the practice of branding militia members with the M symbol.)  
> Also, my own prompt at nbc_revolution's Valentine Prompt-a-Thon: RM2 in a rainstorm, any era
> 
> Quote taken: "The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

**Nine Years After the Blackout**

We’re somewhere in Ohio, I think; been traveling west for about three weeks. A factory in Columbus _lit up like a Christmas tree for two and a half minutes_ and _isn’t that curious, Rachel?_

_Who might know something about that, Rachel?_

Bastards. Even if Ben and the kids were in Columbus over a month ago, if the pendant accidentally got turned on they’re going to have moved by the time we get there. They’re idiots to bring me into the field with them, though I’ve shown my hand one too many times: I won’t jeopardize my kids for the sake of a daring escape and they know it.

Bass has sacrificed the back third of his tent for me, bringing along a narrow bed and wash stand, an extra piece of canvas strung up for privacy. I snuffed out my candle nearly an hour ago, abandoning my notebook for sleep, so I’m surrounded by darkness, rain pounding on the tent outside. It’s pelting the canvas and running down the sides, wind shaking the trees around us, but it’s July so the rain is more muggy than cold.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I untangle my arms from the covers to run fingers through my hair in frustration. My eyes dart to the canvas barrier, a lantern still lit on the other side so even if I couldn’t hear the grunts and moans they’ve barely bothered to restrain, I can see their shadows moving on the wall. Miles has his knees planted on the bed, Bass’ legs spread around his hips and a hand fisted in dark hair. They’re kissing, loud and sloppy, and panting into each other’s mouths as Miles thrusts deep, their shadows flickering in the dim light.

I slide a hand between my legs, finding my panties soaked, and promptly roll my eyes at the idea: I sound like a bad romance novel. Still, nothing gets my pulse up faster than the two of them. It might be jealousy. It might be a thing for voyeurism I never knew I had. It might just be them, their bodies so different, so opposed, and yet incomplete without the other. It might be the knowledge of what they feel like on either side of me, touching and stroking and getting to the heart of me with fingers and cocks.

Sliding the edge of a fingernail over the wet fabric, up and around my clit, I shudder, clenching on nothing. I could lie here in the dark and watch them with my fingers inside myself but- _Shit._ They’re begging to be interrupted anyway. Tossing the covers back, I pad across the floor barefoot, grateful for the unfurled rugs between us and the ground. An extra shirt hits me mid-thigh and I reach up to toy with one of the _M_ buttons at my throat as I push the canvas wall back and step into lantern-light.

My mouth goes dry at the sight in full color:

Miles’ bare ass lifted, Bass’ legs around his waist.

A tattooed arm braced on the bed and another dangling off a sharp shoulder so I can just see the curve of _Monr-_

“You know, some people in this camp are actually trying to sleep.”

Bass turns his head to look at me, mouth hanging open, a strangled grunt escaping him. “Certainly not you,” he manages finally, long, graceful fingers curling around the back of Miles’ neck.

“I _was_.” I don’t bother to protest any further though and, stepping forward to kneel on the end of the bed, I reach up to snap open the few buttons holding my borrowed shirt closed. My nipples pucker at the rush of cool air as I shrug the shirt from my shoulders and toss it off the bed. I slide my hands over the curve of Miles’ back and he shivers compliantly under my touch.

My hair tickles his shoulder, lips brushing the curve of his neck. “Hey,” I whisper, the bed creaking under us as his rhythm shudders.

It might not seem like much but a small smile touches my mouth at the muffled moan I get in response. Sliding my hand around Bass’ wrist, I pry his fingers loose, kissing a wet line from the palm of his hand down his forearm and over the charcoal-black tattoo. It’s my imaginative, I know, but his skin always tastes a bit metallic there, my tongue tracing the stark outline. Bass clenches his hand into a fist beside my head, strained tendons standing out under his skin.

When I finally lift my head, his arm glistens with sweat and my saliva and my mouth waters a little at that. Sliding my hands up under Miles’ arms, palms flat on his chest, I press softer kisses over the tattoos on his back. It’s not until I straighten, drawing his earlobe between my teeth that any of us speaks again. “Harder,” I whisper in his ear, my own breath hot on my lips. “I want to see you come apart in him.”

I move a hand between them, fingers wrapping deftly around Bass’ cock, thick and abandoned, jammed up against Miles’ stomach. They both groan and Bass reaches up to grab the brass headboard, metal bolts rattling. Working my palm over him in smooth, agonizing strokes, I rest my cheek on Miles’ shoulder blade. My free hand skims his chest, short nails scraping lightly through dark hair. I’m intruding on a private moment here, his hands braced on either side of Bass, their bodies wound together more tightly than should be possible. So I stay quiet, listening to the slap of skin and the pelting rain, Bass pulsing in my hand.

My thumb swipes over his tip, taking sticky come with me, and he surges up, curls matted to his face with sweat as he tips his head back. Miles moves, finally, large fingers wrapping surely too tight around the base of Bass’ cock.

“Nuhuh. Somebody’s gonna have to get Rach off,” he mumbles and it might seem dismissive but really I know he’s trying for considerate. Bass glares at me over his shoulder but I slide my fingers between his and he clenches, mouth falling open.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, barely audible over the rain, and slams his eyes shut. “Well hurry up and finish then.”

Miles takes the order to heart, hitching Bass’ hip higher and driving into him. By the pinched look on his face, it must burn like nothing else, but I know how difficult it is for him not to come with Miles in his ass. I pull away, curling on my side next to them, and hook a thumb in my panties to drag them off. Shivering, naked, I slide my hand up Bass’ ribcage, through the hair under his out-stretched arm and over his fingers wrapped around a wide brass bar.

His skin is warm and tan in the flickering lantern light, cheek sharp and clean-shaven. I lean in, unable to help myself, and press my lips to his jaw. Miles watches intently as I taste the soap and lemon on his skin, tongue darting out. My eyes are closed but I can feel him staring, can feel the way he stutters in Bass. He stalls out for a few moments, distracted, but Bass slides his free hand down Miles’ back and, I imagine, pushes a fingertip in him because Miles comes with a muffled groan, gripping my thigh.

He pitches forward, burying his head in Bass’ shoulder, and earns himself a grunt of protest. I run my fingers through his hair and then he’s kissing me, chin tucked to Bass’ chest and a lazy hand tracing my curves. I’ve always relished the way Miles turns sentimental after he comes and usually Bass does too but tonight he shoves him off, face twisting and blue eyes squinting as Miles’ cock slides out of him.

“Get off me, jackass,” he mumbles but it lacks any venom as he reaches for me, his cock jutting up hard and untended.

His arms try to wind around me but Miles gets there first, jerking me flat on my back with his fingers under the thin, delicate skin of my ankles. Bass groans, fisting a hand around himself. “Seriously? Thought you wanted me to get her off.”

Whatever Miles was going to say is muffled in my thigh, his tongue tracing complicated knots on me, and it takes everything I have to push him away. Miles has always been talented with his mouth, though everyone assumes that’s Bass. They both glare at me with childish pouts and I roll my eyes, clambering up over Bass’ legs. There are a few minutes of the awkward logistical issues of three people in a bed before Bass is leaning against the headboard in a pile of pillows, moaning incoherently with me astride his cock, back to his chest, and my arms around Miles’ neck.

He’s thick inside me, stretching me and mumbling nonsense into my shoulder. The Matheson stoicism has always been a turn-on for me, (in the case of _both_ brothers), the way Miles pants against the curve of my breast and almost always stifles the noises he makes when he comes. But the novelty of a man reduced to babbling by the tight, slick heat he finds inside me… It wrecks me every time we do this, every time we curl up in each other and pretend everything is fine.

I shiver as Miles slides his palms down my ribcage, mouth separating from mine with a small reluctant sigh even as he swipes his tongue through the gooseflesh on my breast. The moan they drag out of me doesn’t sound familiar at all: it’s overeager and desperate and I rock my hips into Bass, fingers splayed on Miles’ shoulder blades.

He draws his mouth down between my breasts and over my stomach, paying special attention to the faint line of my cesarean scar. My fingers tangle in his hair, muscles clenching on Bass, and I suck in a shaky breath in anticipation of Miles’ tongue on me. His rough fingers ghost across the crease of my thighs and over the base of Bass’ cock so the other man stutters in the stream of unintelligible chatter falling from his mouth. Lips following his fingers’ trail, Miles settles finally on my clit, hitching my leg over his shoulder.

I have to stifle a cry with a hand over my mouth, biting my lip until it nearly cracks. The awkward angle forces Bass to thrust shallowly, his large, graceful hands pinning my hips to his. I throw my head back against his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut and cupping my breasts with cool, soft hands. My nipples are hard and pink in the muggy summer evening and I roll them between my fingers, this kind of leisurely lay all too satisfying for the company it includes.

Twisting slightly in his arms, I peek my eyes open at Bass and survey his face, features twisted in obscene pleasure. _I put that look there_ , I think for a moment before he groans something that might have been my name, hips jerking under me, and I seal my lips over his. His rambling makes me feel appreciated, ironically, but enough is enough.

“Shh,” I beg, fingertips brushing his cheek, my tongue sliding along his. “Mm, Bass- God, just shut up for a minute-” My voice is rough and hushed in the tent but Miles chuckles between my legs anyway, his stubble abrasive and unduly exciting on the inside of my thighs.

“Just listen to the rain,” I whisper, eyes falling shut again. Somehow Bass manages to draw me even tighter to him with a sigh, the hard lines of his body wound tight beneath me. He buries his head in the curve of my neck to hold in his mumbled words, teeth and tongue worrying the sensitive flesh there. He’s probably leaving a mark but it’s not as if there’s anyone to see it or be jealous of it so I don’t say anything.

The driving rain rattles the tent poles, the canvas flapping outside. It provides a natural, pounding rhythm, the lantern wick hissing on the side table. Bass is panting into my shoulder, hips bucking under me. I yank on Miles’ hair, moaning low in the back of my throat as he slides his tongue around the wet skin where Bass enters me.

“Rach-” Bass slides his hands over my thighs, spreading me even wider. “Rach, I’m gonna-”

Groaning in reluctance, I lift my calf off Miles’ shoulder and slide my legs under me. I reach down to guide him out, pushing up onto my knees and sliding two fingers inside myself. It doesn’t nearly replace the full, stretched feeling of a few moments ago but I can finish fast this way. Miles grabs at Bass’ hips, holding him steady and taking him in his mouth as I lean back against that smooth, muscled chest.

I brace a hand on Miles’ shoulder, staring down the length of my body at Bass’ cock disappearing between familiar lips. I can just imagine that talented tongue sliding around the thick tip before he comes with a strangled cry that, had it not been for the summer rain drowning him out, probably would have brought several Militia men down on us. I’ve been so distracted by the gorgeous sight of them that I’m still, fingers buried deep inside me but not moving. Bass collapses into the pillows behind me with a moan, arm no doubt thrown over his face, but when Miles lifts his head, he hasn’t forgotten about me.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he smirks a little, almost teasing, and reaches for me. I wind my free arm around his neck, sucking Bass’ come off his bottom lip, barely aware he’s slid two fingers inside me alongside mine. Our knuckles grind together until I come hard, thighs giving out under me. We crumple into a mess of arms and legs, my mouth still open and eager on his.

Miles rolls me under him, my hands sliding up over his bare back as he brings me down, stroking my waist and my thighs until I can think straight again. Sighing aloud, I nudge Bass with my bare foot and he grunts a response, flinging an arm over me, already all but asleep. Miles rolls his eyes and even my lips twitch into a smile as I reach for the twisted blanket.

“Get the light?” I suggest, drawing the blanket up over our naked bodies. He leans over me, turning the lantern down, and I draw a deep breath of copper and whiskey off his chest before he settles back beside me.

We fall asleep in the dark, tangled up together, like lovers.

When I wake, perhaps an hour or two has passed and the storm has turned to a weary drizzle. I lay in their arms for a while, wide awake, but I’ve always thought beds were for sex and sleep, not thinking, so I gently extract myself from them and pad across the carpeted ground. Miles’ uniform is draped over maps on the drafting table, no doubt simply where it landed in their scuffle to get naked. I shiver, shrugging the green wool jacket on and lifting the collar to inhale his scent. It hangs above my knees and should feel scratchy but instead it’s worn-in and soft on my bare skin as I tug it around me.

I can just make out the shape of a decanter and glasses on the desk so I pour myself one, alcohol sloshing as I cap the bottle and set it back. The pungent smell is burning my eyes but I lift the glass anyway, taking a sip and letting it sit on my tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. It burns just as bad down my throat.

Lifting the canvas tent flap, I tie it up to the metal pole above my head and stand in the open doorway. Rain pelts my bare legs and I tug the too-long wool sleeves up to my elbows. I can’t help wondering how far I could get out of camp before someone stops me. Barefoot and more debauched than dressed, probably not far. Still, they shouldn’t be so careless with their security.

I’m a _dangerous_ _and valuable prisoner_ , after all.

I almost laugh at that. Oh, if only they knew.

As if on cue, one of the night patrol strolls by and gives me a leering once-over through the raindrops that would probably get him demoted if the boys were awake. I glance over my shoulder at the thought and have to shake my head. I’ve been gone maybe ten minutes and they’ve already migrated to the center of the bed, Bass’ head on Miles’ chest.

I stand there a long time, glass of whiskey or bourbon or something resting against my cheek (I never had much of a taste for hard alcohol and even less so for these bathtub concoctions.) Just about the time my hair is plastered to my face, I feel Miles at my back, his arms wrapping around my waist.

I can feel his soft cock against the curve of my ass, one large hand slipping beneath the jacket to nudge his knuckles under my breast. He doesn’t say anything, just rests his chin on my shoulder, rainwater running in rivulets down his cheeks. Smoothing my fingers over his unmarked forearm, I think of Bass’ tattoo, of the symbol that represents them both. The symbol that represents _my_ name, in a way.

“What does it feel like?” I ask in a whisper. “To be branded?”

He shrugs, noncommittal. “Don’t know,” he whispers back finally, kissing my cheek. “Hope you never have to find out.”

And, well, that kind of sums it up, doesn’t it? They don’t have a clue what they’re doing, never have. This wild chase for Ben will come to nothing, as I’ve told them it will, and we’ll return to Philly and this sad cycle of fucking and drinking and brooding together will continue.

“Come back to bed,” Miles mumbles, tugging his uniform from my shoulders so I stand in the open entry with rain running over my exposed breasts where anyone could see, if not for the dark and the storm.

“But now I’m all wet,” I retort, shifting my glass from one hand to the other so he can strip the soaked jacket off me.

Miles unties the tent flap so it smacks shut again and tips my chin up. “Good. That’s how I like you.” I roll my eyes at the pun but lean in to kiss him anyway. His lips are chapped and dry over mine as he dives his tongue into my mouth, sucking the alcohol from me. I can already feel him stirring against my thigh, our naked bodies pressed together.

As he tugs me towards the big, brass bed, I glance over his shoulder at Bass. Sleepy blue eyes blink up at me and I crawl in beside him, resting my glass on his smooth chest. Miles is right behind me, pulling the blanket up and tugging his pillow to the center of the bed for us both.

It’s a sad cycle, yes, but it’s better than drinking and brooding by myself, I suppose.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of timeline caveats:  
> For one thing, it doesn't really make sense for the boys to take Rachel into the field with them for all the reasons Rachel thinks about in the fic. But I wanted tent sex, okay? Just assume they had some diabolical plan that failed: it's what happens to most of their diabolical plans. Or that they just didn't want to leave her in Philly without one of them there - who knows what she might get up to by herself.  
> Also, I know, we don't see the M buttons until after the coup but it's just sexy, so.


End file.
